


Lost & Found

by leo_minor



Category: Layton Kyouju Series | Professor Layton Series
Genre: (come get your farmer randall content), AU - Henry finds Randall before Descole, Alternate Universe, Amnesia, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Reunions, Village life, happy crying
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:07:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24181078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_minor/pseuds/leo_minor
Summary: After five years, in the tiny town of Craggy Dale, a young farmer wakes up early. On the other side of town, a young man hailing from Monte D'Or asks too many questions under the blistering sun, unaware that he's about to find what he's searching for.
Relationships: Randall Ascot & Henry Ledore, Randall Ascot/Henry Ledore
Comments: 12
Kudos: 34





	Lost & Found

**Author's Note:**

> Firth is called Tannenbaum in the UK version of the game, heads up to prevent any confusion !

This morning at seven sharp, the young man once named Randall Ascot opens his front door and finds it bare.

This is noteworthy for a number of reasons. First, it means that the papers have gotten lost somewhere on the road again, leaving them another week without pressing news and crossword puzzles. That, or the paper boy’s slept in again. Second, the farm cat, one fittingly-named Sneezy, has gone for a trot. Third, the milkman hasn’t come over to deliver, nor pick up their bottles sitting snug on the windowsill. He finds this most important and steps back inside a little troubled.

“Tan !” he calls out, “No milk this morning !”

There’s a mumble from the kitchen that goes unheard over the loud ping of the toaster. A moment later, the man in question emerges with a plate in one hand and a buttered knife in the other. He balances one on top of the other long enough to scratch what little of his nose is visible under all that beard, and gives a thoughtful grunt.

“The bloke might be sick, I expect. Bit strange he didn’t give us a ring, though, ain’t it ?”

It is, in a very special villager way. Craggy Dale is a good place, so everyone will tell you – as will the tattered old billboard at the entrance of the village, thirty years old and unwashed, prompting you in bold and discoloured letters to VISIT CRAGGY DALE AND TELL THE TALE ! – and he’s lived here long enough to back it up. There isn’t much to it, other than crops and farms and the tiny corner shop on the main street, but everyone’s got each other’s back. Everyone knows each other’s business. And so word travels fast. He knows, for instance, that the milkman so hotly discussed this Tuesday morning is a new fella from a few miles down south, because Maureen told him when he helped carry her shopping the other day. Maureen, at the very least, should have phoned them…

“I’ll go down, if you’d like,” he suggests. “To check on ‘im, I mean, ask around.”

Tannenbaum gives him a praising look. “You’d do that, m’boy ? If you go off now, I’ll make sure breakfast’s steamin’ on the table by the time you’re back.”

“Sounds perfect,” he grins, and goes straight for the door. As he’s swinging it closed behind him, he adds : “Don’t fry the bacon too –“

“– long, or it’ll get crispy, ‘n you don’t like that,” Tannenbaum finishes, looking mildly disgusted. “Who doesn’t like their bacon crispy ? Heresy, ain’t it, s–”

The door is closed on his pained muttering, and his protégé steps into the sun.

Five years ago he’d first stumbled down the beaten path, past the overgrown patch of weeds and the first of the corn fields, and into Craggy Dale. The beating sun, scorching his soaking face, is the first of his memories. Now, it isn’t so bad, and the heat barely touches the spring in his step. He got used to it, like he got used to the backpain and the hand callouses and worst of all the _headaches._ Those still sneak up on him, from time to time, but today the kind breeze is keeping them at bay. He waves at his early rising neighbours and continues on his way.

The first sharp turn in the road runs him into quite the commotion. A group of six villagers are gathered together on the closest doorstep, exchanging anxious chatter, and in a town this small, this is as exciting as it gets. His steps turn a few heads, and he’s ushered into the circle as soon as he’s within reach.

“There you are !” one of the women tells him. Her strong grip drives into his shoulders. “I was hoping I’d run into you or old Tan this mornin’. Did you hear yet ?”

“Of course he hasn’t,” her friend cuts in. “He’s probably just woken up. You haven’t heard, have you, Boy ?”

“Uh, no.” All the pushing and tugging is a bit much at once. “What’s all the fuss about ?”

A sturdy farmer offers a deep sigh. He doesn’t look too pleased to be part of the group, but trapped between his wife and neighbours, he’s out of exits. “Foreigners, apparently.”

“Apparently my arse,” the first woman says with dire eloquence. “They’re not from around here. All well-spoken, like. That’s what I heard from our neighbours from the main street. They’re goin’ around askin’ questions, kept the milkman till the sun rose !”

“So that’s where our milk is, then.” There’s a mumble of common lament. “Tan sent me lookin’ for it, see.”

“He’s late on his rounds, poor man,” the farmer’s wife puts in, “but you might be able to meet him halfway. You know, by the shop. If you run, the milk might still be cool !”

“Mighty ambitious, that,” her husband grunts, but he’s already been pushed out of the circle and earshot in one swift shove, and starts further down the street with all eyes on his back.

As he crosses over to the main street, he takes cover in the shadows of groves and buildings alike. He’s changed his mind. Today’s sun is a mean old bastard. He walks from farm to farm in the shade, making sure not to trip on the cobblestones again. Nobody’s around their fields, nor on their doorsteps. Even the nosiest of the villagers (read : ol’ keen-eared Maureen) are completely out of sight. Their absence is a little desolating, and he looks at his feet instead.

“Boy !”

“Huh ?”

His voice echoes ahead. He stops to give his surroundings a searching glance. The street is absolutely deserted. He squints into the sandy horizon, but there’s just nothing there to see, other than the very faint blur of the canyon.

“Over here, you idiot !”

“Who’re you callin’ an idiot ?”

Over here, over here, easier heard than located says he, but craning his neck upwards is enough to follow the words to their owner. The young man’s waving at him from his perch, on the roof of his barn. The sun doesn’t seem to bother him the way it bothers most of mankind.

“You’re gonna combust one day, Vince,” he shouts over to him, grinning despite himself. “Your poor family’ll be so heartbroken.”

The young man only laughs heartily, and throws his legs over the edge of the roof. “Bollocks to m’family ! Besides, only pale, pale people like you burn in the sun, Boy !”

“I’m not that pale !”

“Sure, not anymore. But when you first arrived, man, you were nearly blindin’ !” Vince slaps his thigh in good-humour, peering down at his friend. “Did you hear about the foreigners goin’ around stuffin’ their noses in our business ? Suit and tie kind o’ lads. Veeery fetchin’.”

“You saw ‘em ?” He’s accidentally stepped back into the sunlight, and already his skin reddens in retaliation. A few paces back into the shade are much needed. “They’ve got everybody in a right old state.”

“I did ! They came over to have a look around. Told me they were from Monte D’Or. Sounds fancy, don’t it ?” Vince mimes dusting off the shoulders of a suit. He’s wearing a tattered white vest, and the result isn’t very convincing.

The name rings some very faint bells. He tries to follow the sound to the source. An ad on TV, maybe ? – those always have those fancy slogan that get stuck in your head – or a headline. Monte D’Or, the city of miracles. Front page of the Times. “The city in the desert ?”

“Correct !” Vince snaps his fingers, looking mighty pleased. “Young entrepreneur opened a hotel, or somethin’, bunch of years ago. T’was in the papers, weren’t it ? Since then they’ve built a casino and a great big circus. It’s attractin’ a whole lot of tourists ‘n hotshots like these guys.”

“Well what’re they doin’ _here_ of all places ?”

“God knows. Lookin’ for somethin’ or someone. Don’t remember which.”

He considers pushing the matter further, but the young man’s clearly lost interest, and has gone back to lying flat against the roof. Vince’s always been a bit funny. He reckons that’s why they get on better than most. The young man lifts a lazy hand in parting – the gesture’s ridiculous from this distance that he has to stifle a snort.

“See you around, Vince. Don’t roast alive !”

“Don’t get sunburn, white boy !” he calls right back, and rolls over and out of view.

Monte D’Or. The name sounds more attractive than it truly is when he rolls it over his tongue. Maybe he’ll run into those men in suits further up the road. Maybe they’ll even ask him some questions, and he’ll get to ask a few back, about what it’s like to live in fancy Monte D’Or. Is there noise at night ? TV signal ? Tall buildings like in London ? Hell, everything over there must be exotic. His wonderings guide his feet further down the main street of the only place he knows , past the brick houses and the cottages and the fenced-up enclosures, and not for the first time he thinks of the home he’s forgotten.

“You’d think people would be a bit more cooperative, wouldn’t you, sir ?”

Shaking his head is more of an effort than ever before. Sweat is dripping down his face, and has matted his hair flat against his forehead, robbing him of any protection it might have provided from the brutal sun. He feels like he’s withering in his suit. He scratches at the fabric sticking to his skin and manages the gesture anyway. A little discomfort won’t halt him now.

“I’m not terribly surprised,” he tells the man. There’s a faint tremor in his voice. “I used to live in a village as small as this one. When you’re used to knowing all the faces around you, a new one is never much of a pleasant sight.”

“I expect that’s true, sir, but it seems we’re being avoided.”

“That’s alright.” He wipes his forehead with his sleeve. “Let’s just keep going. There’s more to this place ahead. We’ll find someone else.”

The man bows his head slightly and follows in his shadow, arms crossed behind his back. A shadow of hesitation crosses his face, which he dutifully wrinkles out but cannot chase away. The heat is getting to him, too – how could it not ? “But, sir, if I may…”

His boss does not slacken his pace, but turns around to glance at him. There isn’t a trace of impatience in his eyes, not a hint of blame. He looks back into them and wonders what the hell is driving this man. “Yes ?”

“There’s a possibility we won’t find him here. What then…?”

“Then…” This time he does stop, stumbling over his own feet in the process. The heat is torturous. Carefully, he undoes the first, then second, and third button of his suit and eases it off. His aide watches him fold it with practiced precision and drape it over his forearm. “Then we move on. And we look somewhere else.”

Of course. Like they have one hundred times before.

There’s a repeated tinkering coming from the sandy haze ahead.

No more houses to trespass on for a break from the heat. Barely any trees taller than him that might offer him hospice. It’s all or nothing, and Boy wisely decides that nothing is the better option here, allowing himself to slump against the very last wall Craggy Dale has to offer for another mile. Clinging to the distant idea of breakfast for dear strength, he waits for the tinkering to come closer.

It’s the distinctive sound of glass against glass, a delicate bumping that soon emerges from the cloud. With it appears the poor milkman, struggling with his bike like an upset mare. The crates in the front basket jump every time the wheel crests a bump, and cling ! go the bottles. He seems to notice him from under his oversized cap and wheezes to a stop in the first spot of shade he can find. The handlebars rest against the wall, but he doesn’t get off. Judging by the tremor in his hands, this might be beyond him.

“One helluva hot day, ain’t it now ?”

He doesn’t have the heart to tell him the worst has yet to come and offers an empathetic nod. “May’s like that around here, I’m afraid !”

“Well, only been on the job a couple o’ weeks, so I’m still adjustin’, but I’ll be alright, aye !” He pauses to catch his breath and wipe sweaty hands on his trousers. “Bein’ late ain’t the best way to make a good impression on the neighbourhood, but it ain’t like I slept through my alarm ! It’s those gentlemen from further into the sand who kept me, damn ‘em.”

“From Monte D’Or,” he corrects automatically. The name’s in everyone’s mouth today. “They’re the talk of the town right now. D’you know why they’re here ?”

“Sure, I do ! Asked all sorts o’ questions, but what help am I ? I only just moved here ! They’re lookin’ for someone, someone who weren’t born here. Like we keep a bloody register !” He spits onto the pavement. “Asked me about a lad called ‘Randall’. What kind o’ upper-class name’s that anyway ?”

Something catches in his throat. He tries to swallow it down, but it’s stuck tight. “That –“

“Doesn’t sound like somethin’ you’d name your kid around these parts. Right ? I told ‘em no one went by that – thankfully, Jesus _wept_ – ‘n I hope I wasn’t wrong. You’re the lad who lives with ol’ Tannenbaum, ain’t ya ? Boy ? So sorry I haven’t introduced myself – I’m Wilson. Clarence Wilson. Just Clarence is fine.”

 _Just Clarence is_ – just Clarence is fine. His ears stop ringing. The tightness in his jaw subsidies, and his breathing flows even again. The moment passes, like it never was. Boy. That’s his name now, and that’s fine.

He blinks, and finds the man’s hand extended before him, waiting to be shaken. It’s hot and clammy against his. It’s a pretty dreadful feeling, which he’s meticulous not to show. “Right. That’s me. Pleased to meet you, Clarence, ‘n I’d say you’re welcome but the sun says otherwise, don’t it ?” They share a brief grin. He scratches his cheek and adds : “Say, is there any way I could just grab our bottles ‘n be off ? Tan gets a bit impatient when the milk’s late.”

He’s starting to tire, and nearly drops his suit jacket several times. The sandy path would make it irrecuperable. He grips it a little tighter and continues down the street. In the shade, two men are conversing around a bicycle.

“What about asking them, sir ?”

“This one’s for you, ‘n this one, ‘n maybe – say, how many’d you usually get ?”

“Three sounds ‘bout right !’

He recognises the sweaty, unshaven face of the man on the bike as the milkman’s. Leaning over the milk crates in the front basket stands a man they haven’t yet seen. They exchange a few animated words and glass bottles are passed from hand to hand. The stranger’s face remains hidden in the shadows, and he slows his pace down for a second, just a second, but –

“Boy ! That’s them !” Clarence hisses suddenly, and very nearly pulls him down by his shirt collar. “The foreign fellas ! Don’t turn around too fast, or they’ll see you –”

He has a feeling that if he _does_ turn around too fast, Clarence will accidentally (or not) snap his neck, and this isn’t something he’s too keen on. Takin’ it all slow and careful, he tilts his head over his shoulder, but his efforts aren’t rewarded justly, and his shoulder slump forward with uncoordinated speed. Both men have already walked past, and he can only watch their backs recede.

“Missed ‘em,” he curses softly.

“Many would pay to be left alone by their kind,” Clarence puts in, all at once infinitely wise. “Me, for one. That’ll be two pound, fifty pence.”

He takes a shortcut on the way back, fuelled only by the thought of breakfast and the funky new fan Tan had brought back from one of his trips up north. It’s still in its box, but today’s the day they rip the packaging open, he thinks. They’ve got plenty of shade back there, and the back door’s always open, but without a little artificial help, both of them’ll get heatstroke regardless.

His new route takes him away from the street gossip and the worst of the sunlight. Over the neighbour’s fence and into the pasture, following the slithering stream down past the bridge, cutting through the thicket. He doesn’t see a single person the whole time, not up close, not in the distance. The shades behind each barn is untouched and unoccupied. Those two men didn’t look _that_ intimidating, even from behind. One of them, the man who’d ditched his suit, looked positively frail. But everyone’s avoiding them like the plague. He’ll just have to ask Tan, won’t he ?

He crests their little hill from the back and lets himself in through the backyard. The striking coolness of their home makes his face flush pleasantly. From the living room, the buzz of electricity drifts over and out the door. Tan’s pulled the fan out already.

“Where’s breakfast ?” he calls, and kicks his shoes off. The cold tiles under his feet make him weak in the knees. “I’ve brought back three bottles !”

“Brandy, I dare hope,” comes Tannenbaum’s good-humoured voice. The man patters out of the kitchen and relieves him of his load. “Thanks, m’boy. Bit hot, ain’t they ? We’ll ‘ave to watch out in case the milk spoils. So where was the poor man ?”

He follows him into the living room, where his promised reward awaits. The smell is fantastic. He scrapes back a chair and pokes his meal with a fork. “I can actually cut the bacon without it snappin’ in half this time ! Thank you !” He scoops up a forkful of the nearest thing and swallows it hot. “His name’s Clarence, he said. Was kept late by two men from Monte D’Or. You know Monte D’Or ?”

“Big town not far from ‘ere,” Tan nods. With the bottles safe in the fridge, he’s come back within the fan’s reach. “Not quite a city yet, though that won’t take long. The casinos are pretty popular, I’ve heard.”

“Right !” he says, or tries to. With a mouthful of toast in the way, much of the word gets left behind. “They’re goin’ round askin’ questions to everyone, but word got round, ‘n the streets are empty now. I guess tourists aren’t too popular here.”

Tan considers this for a moment, and gives one of his signature grunts. “We’re a peaceful lot here in the Dale. A lot of people just don’t like bein’ bothered, I expect. No one cares for intrusion.”

“Mmh. They walked right past me, anyway. Two of ‘em.”

“Probably all the better. Don’t eat wit’ your mouth open, son, or half the bacon grease’s gonna stain the tablecloth.”

“Well, maybe they’ll come over here. Knock on our door.”

“Maybe,” Tan agrees, and leans back to turn the fan onto a stronger blast. His words are nearly swept away by the hiss of the blades, but he grunts them anyway, hands crossed tensely across his stomach. “Wonder what they’re lookin’ for.”

The next house over is a lovely one, he’s sure, only he can’t quite tell. His vision has blurred, and his eyes are fighting to stay open. Pearls of sweat weigh down on his eyelids. He can make out the outline of the little cottage, the red bricks that line its walls, but the path that leads there is a hot haze. He stops in the shade of a tree and rests his back against its trunk for a moment.

“Sir… perhaps you should consider taking a break.”

“I’m quite fine,” he assures his aide, in a voice that suggests quite the contrary. “There aren’t many doors we haven’t knocked on, and I believe only a spare few will open for us. Once we’ve looked everywhere, I’ll rest. I promise.”

He takes a moment to bury his face in his hands, willing the pain trapped inside his skull to disappear. The momentary darkness allows his vision to realign.

“Allow me to offer you a helping hand, then.”

“That, I won’t refuse,” he smiles, and steps back into the sun.

Their journey down the small path is less harsh than he’d expected. The sun continues to beat down on their necks, but the pain has withered to a level that he can easily bear. Close to their feet, crops tickle the edges of the road, tall grass and dirt patches and corn. He hasn’t seen corn this tall since leaving Stansbury behind. He takes it as a good luck sign and smiles to himself.

His aide lets go of his arm when they reach the door. The man is in a right old state, sweat dripping from the faltering spikes in his hair. He guesses his appearance must be much the same, and runs a hand through his soaked fringe before knocking three times.

Hello. I’m so sorry to disturb you. My name is Henry Ledore. Yes, the heat _is_ quite dreadful. Have you heard of a young man, first name Randall, last name Ascot ? He disappeared five years ago, and I’ve been turning the South-East upside down with no leads. Awfully sorry to waste your time. Have a good day, now.

Hello. I’m so sorry to disturb you. I’m – the heat really _is_ quite dreadful. Have you heard of a young man named Randall Ascot ? He’s been missing five years, and I’ve been… looking everywhere for him. No – that’s quite alright. Terribly sorry. Goodbye.

Hello. I’m so sorry to disturb you. The heat is absolutely awful. Are you familiar with the name Randall Ascot ? He’s been gone five years now, and I’m looking – no need for that. We’ll take our leave. Good day.

“Hello. I’m –“

“So sorry !” The door slams against the wall hard enough to splinter. “We’ve got the fan on, see, and I didn’t hear you knock.”

Henry gapes.

The young man leaning in the doorframe has a mess of dark red hair framing his tanned face, curling all over the place. He’s wearing a sheepish smile that’s trembling a little at the edges, like he’s holding back his excitement, and the sight of it winds him like a punch. Above it sits a sharp, white scar, running from his forehead to his eyebrow. Henry feels his legs falter.

“Didn’t mean to keep you waitin’,” he continues, oblivious to his predicament. “Can I help you ? You’re – um, are you cryin’ ?”

Is he ? He brushes his fingers against his cheek and finds them wet. His heart feels like it’s about to explode, and break his ribs along with it. It takes all his self-control to keep himself upright.

“Master Randall…!” he whispers, and clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Beg your pardon ?”

There’s something unsettling in Randall’s eye, something he hadn’t even considered. He doesn’t recognise him. The notion is terrifying. They’re facing each other like strangers, and he’s tearing up on his doorstep. That’s not the kind of person one invites inside, he reminds himself, and wipes his eyes with one swift motion.

“I’m very sorry.” He looks back up at him, unsure of what expression his face is showing. “Would it be alright if I asked for your name ?”

“I, um –“ The young man’s gaze is locked on Henry’s face, as if he’s seeing him for the first time, and only a great deal of blinking can steer him back into focus. He tears his eyes away with difficulty and stares at his bare feet instead. “I lost it. A few years ago.”

Henry feels a weight drop to the pit of his stomach. “Amnesia ?”

His question is ignored. His host has lifted a hand to his face to rub at the spot above his eyebrow, where dark skin turns a scarred white. “Maybe you know.”

He blinks.

“About my name,” he elaborates, gesturing into thin air. There’s a tremor in his hand. His gaze drags across the floor, picking up dust. “I heard you’re lookin’ for someone. And I don’t know nobody from Monte D’Or, but I can’t stand lookin’ at your face, because I’ve forgotten the name that goes with it. We’ve met before, haven’t we ?”

His accent is all over the place. Two voices are fighting for the top. He looks at Henry with sudden misery, and he holds his gaze. Five years and he hasn’t changed, not really, maybe not at all. He still looks at him the same way. And he remembers. He remembers him after all.

“Yes,” Henry says at last. His heart is beating so hard it’s a miracle he’s not shaking.

“Am I the person you’ve come looking for ?”

“Yes, you are.”

“Then you know my name.” There’s such hope on his face than Henry has to resist the urge to touch him. But he’s waited five years. What’s another few seconds ? “Can I get yours ?”

“Henry,” he tells him softly. “Henry Ledore.”

Randall stares at him. His hands find the hinges of the door and wrap around the wood. Henry watches his knuckles turn white, and his face follow suit. His knees buckle and fold forward, and Henry barely has the time to catch him before he hits the ground. With his fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, he manages the calmest of smiles, and says :

“I think I need to sit down.”

He just needs a moment.

Henry’s helped him ease into the nearest chair, but the feeling of falling has yet to leave him, even with his two feet on the ground and his arms wrapped around the hard wood. He doesn’t dare open his eyes just yet.

“Shall I give you some space ?” Henry had asked, in a tone that expressed little desire to do so. He hadn’t withdrawn his hands from the back of the chair, nor protested when Randall had leaned in to bow his head. With his forehead pressed against Henry’s knuckles, he tries to make sense of the words flooding his mind.

Back home when home wasn’t here, when home was Stansbury where the wind is always kind and the hills are always gentle and the streams are always blue, where he was born and raised and had lost his first tooth, broken his first bone, laughed his first laugh, dug his first hole in the ground and revelled in what he’d found, the _mask of Chaos, the real thing, the puzzle of_ Norwell Wall north of the village, Hershel, _Angela you’ve got to let me go_ out into the ruins in the desert, where the heat had been no worse than here, torturous at the time, fencing _in and outside school topping the competition beating Hershel again fighting_ back to back in _AKBADAIN, Master Randall said this would be his last expedition, isn’t that_ right after all, his _last and greatest trip into the_ ruins where he’s at home at ease in the shade of the pillars in a place where his knowledge is finally useful and he’d never meant for that promise to be true but he didn’t _drop the mask !_

And he fell

and fell

and fell

and fell

and _forgot._

And that was the end of Randall Ascot, and the beginning of Boy. For five years, that had been alright. But as tears drip down from his eyes and roll down Henry’s hands, he thinks that to be recognised is a tremendous relief.

Slowly the dizziness recedes. Images stop flashing before his eyes. The tick of the old grandfather clock they’ve got propped up against the wall reaches him again, and oily and mellow sound. The fan, too. He can hear the buzz of the fan. And he can hear Henry breathing. He lifts his head from his hands and sees he’s left the poor man’s knuckles quite white. He’s gripping the back of the chair so hard that his fingernails too have lost their colour. What a tiny detail to fixate on, but even such a tiny detail is overwhelming, a minuscule reminder of all that he’s missed.

Randall wipes his eyes and lifts his chin and looks at his friend properly, for the first time in five years.

But Henry… hasn’t changed, really, has he ? It hasn’t been nearly long enough for his face to lose its roundness or his eyes to lose their shine. He has the same straw-blond hair, in the same, choppy haircut, damp and clinging to his forehead and temples. The same strict position, back perfectly straight even now, same sort of manic neatness to his clothes soaked in sweat or not. So what, there’s a little stubble on his cheeks – he wears it well, like it’s supposed to be there, and it’s cute on him. And he’s still so quiet, so quiet that it takes Randall a full minute to realise that he’s _crying_ , letting tears silently course down his face and dribble onto his tie. He’s staring right at him and probably not seeing much other than a wet blur. That just won’t do, Randall decides, and kicks the chair back. Henry’s hands have a moment of trouble figuring out what to do with themselves, but the problem becomes benign when Randall steps forwards and draws his tears from under his eyes with a cautious thumb.

“It isn’t much of a happy reunion if you’re cryin’, is it ?” he jokes, as if his eyes aren’t just as red.

Back then, Henry might have short-circuited. Now he only places a trembling hand on top of his and holds it tightly, nursing it against his cheek. His eyes shut and his lip quivers. Faintly, Randall thinks this is the most expression he’s seen on Henry’s face since they were kids.

“Master Randall,” he hiccups softly, “I’m so very sorry.”

What on earth for, he wants to ask, but he knows. Not everyone got the benefit of forgetting, and moving on. He’s left a heavy weight on everyone’s minds. “Henry. I’m the one who should apologise to you.”

Henry shakes his head frantically. The mere thought makes him scrunch up his nose in distress. “What an absurd idea…! If it weren’t for me, you would never have gone to those wretched ruins a– and –“

“Whose idea was it to go in the first place ? No one could have stopped me. I needed to prove something, no matter the stakes, ‘n at the time…” He takes a sharp breath in. “At the time, I’m not sure I was very happy to be alive.”

“I knew that,” Henry confides quite suddenly, his voice a thin mutter. He’s slow with his words. “I knew that and I believe I was the only one who did. It was my responsibility to – to keep you out of harm’s way. I made a mistake that day that I regretted every second of every day up into now.” Randall watches him swallow, and opens his eyes. Cold blue. Only, there a glint of relief – better yet, euphoria – that makes them not intimidating, but welcoming. “But I think perhaps I’ve made up for it at last. I’ve… I’ve finally found you.”

And his lips pull up into a smile, a genuine smile, and Randall realises that its warmth is what he’d been longing for every time his head hurt, every time he woke up in cold sweat, and every time the holes in his memory bore into him. He’d been one hell of an idiot to leave that smile behind him and trek into the sand, but then again, time makes everything seem simpler. Doesn’t it ?

Or maybe it’s just Henry’s smile.

“Sorry I was so well hidden,” he says in a mumble, and lets the tears he’d been holding go. The hand on Henry’s cheek isn’t enough anymore, he might walk away or disappear or drop that pretty smile, and it’s been more than five years since they last hugged but he wants to hold him now, and very badly. Craggy Dale has knocked the etiquette right out of him, and he feels no shame in wrapping both his arms around his friend and burying his face unceremoniously in his chest.

Henry’s eyes fly wide open, and he barely holds back his gasp. His arms are slack and tense by his sides. When he finds it within himself to speak, his tone is frankly disbelieving. Randall has to hold back a laugh. “Is this… really alright ?”

“Henry, if you’d don’t hug me back, I’m going to be very upset.”

The young man takes this claim very seriously. Lips pressed into a thin line, he puts one hand experimentally on Randall’s back, and when nothing terrible befalls them, allows the second to join it. He’s slow but steady leaning in. In a final leap of faith he hooks his chin over Randall’s shoulder and relaxes. His fingers dig into the back of his shirt. They stand there together, clinging to each other, listening to the fan buzz and the wind hiss through the window and their mingled breathing. It’s nice.

“Thank you,” Randall says, or so Henry assumes. His voice is stifled by all the fabric in the way. “For comin’ looking me.”

Henry looks over his shoulder, at the space behind him, Tannenbaum’s untidy little living room. The table sports a half-finished plate of eggs and an ungodly amount of newspaper clippings. The fan sits on an old, tilting desk in the corner, vibrating joyfully against its surface. In the same corner, a glint of gold catches his eye, propped up against the wall. He knows what it is without having to look at it, and decides that he doesn’t want to. “I couldn’t have done otherwise, Master Randall. I’d have searched for you until my last breath.”

He says it like it’s any old fact. Nothing out of the ordinary. He says it in the same tone he used to say that dinner was served, Master Randall, or that your father’s come home and I thought I should warn you, Master Randall. The young man in question has to stifle a laugh, and leans back enough to look into Henry’s face. His smile has slipped away and left his lips twitching at the edges. He looks serious, just as serious as back in the day, but his eyes are fervent on him, like he’s holding back and it’s straining him.

“Henry,” he says. “We’re both adults, now. How about just Randall ?”

“I couldn’t,” Henry protests immediately. There’s a wet glint in his eye again.

“Why not ?”

“Because…” He wipes furiously at his eyes and allows them to flicker across the room. “Because that’s the way it has always been.”

“But we’re not the way we always were. It's been five years ! Man, I don’t even _sound_ the way I always did.”

Henry allows himself the smallest of smiles and mumbles : “For what it’s worth, I think the regional accent sounds good when it’s coming from you.”

“Thanks ! I agree.” He grins a grin that’s five years old like it’s a second nature. “And I think Monte D’Or’s made you prettier.”

The comment takes its time reaching Henry’s brain. He opens his mouth to form a thanks. All at once the sense of it strikes him quite visibly, and he shuts his mouth and turns a little red. And then, under Randall’s teasing eyes, a slow smile tugs at his lips and lights up his face. He looks so very pleased, and not fully aware of it, and when finally he realises what he’s displaying, he lifts a hand to cover his face. Randall catches it on its way up.

“Mas– “

“Henry, would you look at me, please ?”

With the air of utmost reluctance, Henry looks at him. Randall catches his pupils flare when their eyes meet, and notes that for someone so quiet, Henry really isn’t very subtle. He chooses his next words with the utmost care, and a gentle squeeze in his chest.

“Tell me what you’re thinkin’ about ?”

Henry stares.

Ah. That takes him back.

Days of kinder summers and frigid winters alike, be it just the two of them alone, or in the heart of a group. During the days of their childhood, he’d heard that sentence hundreds of times, perhaps more but no less. It was Randall’s key, and like anything Randall had, he liked to flaunt it. The difference was that this was a secret, just between the two of them. Even if they slipped up, if someone overheard, no one other than Randall could use it quite the same way. Back when Henry could look no one in the eye, shy and clumsy and terribly closed up on himself, and no one could quite get through to him, Randall was two steps ahead as always. He’d come and sit next to him or pull him aside, and he’d say _tell me what you’re thinking about, Henry, you’ve got that look in your eye again_ and Henry would talk. He would respond to nothing else. He would tell him about meaningless details that he couldn’t shake off and sometimes he would tell him about things he was fascinated by, and Randall would listen with uncharacteristic attention and chatter back until he was done, and then they’d go on like nothing had happened and slip back into their routine. Those words opened a little window, just for the two of them. And one day the window had closed brusquely, and he hadn’t expected it to ever be opened again.

But Randall has retrieved the key from the depths of his memory, and it still fits the lock.

“We’ve been apart for a long time,” he utters tonelessly, looking at his hand. Randall hasn’t let it go. This makes him feel all sort of things that he can’t name. He tries to think about what’s really on his mind, and why he still feels like he’s going to faint, and why he hasn’t mentioned the people waiting back in Monte D’Or for Randall’s return. He tries to put it all in some sort of coordinated order, some weak organisation, but his thoughts resist categorisation. He only half-heartedly blames them. Ever since Randall opened the front door, his brains have practically scattered. Every cell in there seems to be coursing in a different direction at the same acceleration rate. Randall looks at him with the warmest of eyes, and he feels fresh tears worm their way out from under his eyelashes, but what’s a few more ? After all, there’s – _no_ _reason why he believed just the ache in his chest the dullness of his surroundings when he’d heard the awful_ news, front page, huge bold black letters exclaiming MONTE D’OR the city of miracles the hotels the casinos the _mask of Chaos shiny on his office wall a symbol of reunion and_ hope that’s five years old by now and more desperate every _day he goes out there into the sand and the sun and the deep countryside where there’s nothing, no one, waiting to be_ found at last – no need to hold them back any longer. “Both of us have changed, but I don’t want things between us to change further.”

And deep down, very deep down, he knows that’s a little bit of a lie.

“That’s a little bit of a lie,” Randall smiles, and Henry curses himself, not for the first time, for being so transparent. Randall’s thumb rubs circles into the back of his hand, and the gesture is so tender that he chokes up quite audibly. He would never admit it out loud, but he thinks that the young man is being a tad cruel. Not intentionally. Never intentionally. “Can I tell you somethin’, Henry ? I’ll do the talking – I know you don’t like to talk, although some things do change, don’t they ? I heard you harassed the milkman all mornin’.”

“Harassed is perhaps too strong a word,” he puts in politely, but he gets the message.

“It’s his, not mine ! We’re not used to suit-and-tie types around here, but – you know what, that’s besides the point.” He takes a moment to scratch his head, sending red curls bouncing with each motion. Blinking a little more than necessary, he gets back on track. “I’m gonna say it like this : these past five years I’ve worked really hard to try and move forward and out of the pit I woke up in. With help from my friends here, I started dealin’ with the idea that my life had to start from scratch. That wasn’t easy for a number of reasons, but most of all I couldn’t ignore this sort of hole inside my chest – man, I could have had a career as a poet, huh ? It was a kind of seeping wound that got smaller over time, but still felt cold and tugged at me when I was unaware. I was missing a part of myself, but when I opened that door, and you were doin’ your best to stand there and lookin’ like you were about to collapse from heatstroke, that wound closed up. Ends met. Even before I remembered your name, I had what I’d lost back. You came for me. For that reason, I can say without doubt that you’re special to me, Henry.”

Henry has trouble swallowing. He can feel Randall’s grasp, tighter around his hand. He looks a little sad, it’s in the tiny creases sitting next to his eyes, and the confession is so unlike him that Henry has struggles a moment. That isn’t quite right – it isn’t unlike him, but unlike the boy he’d been before. There are a lot of things to discover about the person Randall has become, and this is true for Henry as well. He watches the sunlight shine on the speckles of dust settled upon the mask’s smooth surface across the room, the prospect isn’t so much frightening as it is bright. After all, they have all the time in the world ahead of them now. The idea makes him smile. If he’s special to Randall, then there’s no word quite right to describe what Randall is to him.

“You always came for me when I needed you most.” His voice is a quiet murmur. “This was my chance to return the favour, but also simply to have you by my side again, as selfish as it may be. To live in a world without you in it was an unbearable idea, so please forgive me if I’m stepping out of line for saying this, but you’re the most precious thing in my life and the closest to my heart.”

It’s Randall’s turn to stare at him. The sounds around him have become but a dull buzz behind a barrier even the fan can’t penetrate. His heart is hammering against his ribs hard enough to make his whole body shake. The most precious thing in his life. The closest to his heart.

Henry’s name is all he manages to say.

The words won’t come. It’s the first time in his life that he doesn’t know what to say. Hearing that coming out of Henry’s mouth has winded him completely. Of the two of them, he hadn’t expected him to be the better talker, but he just can’t – the warmth in his chest, the spinning in his head, the feeling of being on the very edge of tears, the pull of being anchored at last, Henry’s smile and his hand still wrapped tightly in his feelin’ like the best thing in the whole damn world, he can’t put that into words. The most precious thing in his life. The closest to his heart. God.

He takes his hand back from around Henry’s. It’s slippery with sweat. He wipes it on his jeans and once it’s sufficiently dry by his standards he finds he has no idea what to do with it. It ends up fussing about Henry’s tie, straightening what their hug has crumpled. He has to do something. He has to stall just a minute, just a minute or two, until he finds something right. Henry deserves to hear something that’s right.

For his part the young man tries to ignore the immediate feeling of regret seeping through his chest, but with Randall still silent and pensive, the task is a hard one. “Master Randall, let’s forget about the matter. To see you after so long simply made me overly eager.”

“Forget about it ?” Randall repeats, off-beat.

“Well, I –“

Henry has the time to take a preliminary breath and that’s it, and he’s pulled forward by his tie, closer to Randall than he’d ever dare go. Nose to nose, he catches the young man’s lips twist before his mouth becomes otherwise occupied. A brash kiss is pressed to the corner of his lips, just long enough for him to accept that it’s there and quite real and not a product of his often overly active imagination, but not long enough for him to start spluttering in the most disgraceful fashion.

“I don’t want to forget about it !” Randall says. His eyes are fiery. “I don’t want to forget a single thing ever again ! I've only just remembered ! I’m never leaving anyone behind waitin’ for me, and I’m never brushin’ things off, and I’m certainly not gonna start with you !”

The sight of him, curls an absolute mess stuck to his forehead, his face red and furious and desperately happy at once, is striking. He’s still got his hands around Henry’s tie, which he’s stubbornly refusing to release. Looking at his expression, Henry can almost see the frame of glasses long gone. It’s like no time has passed at all.

Randall sniffles once, then once again, and shakes his head in the hope to delay oncoming tears. “You just told me that I’m the most precious thing in your life. I don’t want to forget that ! If this is you overly eager then stay that way ! You’re right, we’ve been apart for a long time, so don’t you dare try to put more distance between us when we've only just found each other.”

A first tear rolls leisurely down his face. He ignores it and lets go of Henry’s tie and pulls him into an embrace so tight that breathing becomes a challenge, but it shocks Henry out of his tense state and back into reality in a motion so brutal he nearly stumbles. His lips still tingle. There’s too much happening at once, too much for his brain to arrange, and he struggles to stop it from shutting down entirely, but the feeling of relief, bright and hot and spreading through him, keeps him grounded. His fear seems a thoughtless mistake. He’s been a fool to think it would take a title to keep Randall and him together.

“I’m sorry,” he says again, “Randall.”

“There you go.” Randall’s voice cracks. “Was it so hard ?”

Henry shakes his head. And, freed from his bonds, he presses his forehead against Randall’s.

"You were right," he tells him, shutting his eyes. "I was lying, just a little, but I'll tell you the whole truth if you will hear it."

Randall's holding the back of his shirt by the handful. His grip tightens. "Tell me."

"I've found you, and to me that's all that's mattered for the past five years. Finding you. Having you in my arms is enough to make me happy. But deep down, as selfish as it may be, I held the hope I might become to you what you were to me - the most important person in my life. And now that you've told me that I'm special to you, I don't think I could be any happier than this."

"Bet ?" Randall says, and Henry can hear the smile in his voice. "Get this, Henry. With my memories finally safe and sound where they belong, I can say that I love you for every time you caught me when I fell out of a tree, and every time we scratched our knees on rocks explorin', and every time you stood up for me, and every time I caught you cursing under your breath in the kitchen, and every time you smiled, I always wished you'd smile more, and Henry, most of all, I love you because I owe you so much, and I'm sorry it took me so long to _say_ it, but I'm told I'm dense. How's that ?"

Henry, whose heart feels like it's about to burst, can barely nod. "Not bad," he manages, eyes wet, and Randall bursts out laughing.

"Right ? I've got plenty of time ahead of me to get better, from now on. So dry your tears and let's greet each other properly, okay ? I won't collapse this time."

He does as he's told, feeling faintly like he's in the middle of the fever dream of a lifetime. They both take one step back, all teary-eyed and shaky and jittery down to the toes, and Randall says :

"Hello, Henry. I've missed you so much."

"Randall," Henry says, smiling his softest smile yet, "I've missed you tenfold."

"Well, I can't help but feel like I'm interruptin' something of some importance," Tannenbaum comments lightly from the back door's step.

Randall barely blinks, but Henry's head jolts up with such force that a dull ache settles in the back of his neck. The man in the doorway chuckles merrily under all that beard and steps inside. His eyes are tiny and mostly hidden in the shade of his hair, but he's sure they're twinkling.

"Randall, eh ?" he asks the young man.

"The men from Monte D'Or came over and brought me back my name !" Randall says brightly. "Isn't that mighty nice of them ?"

"Awfully posh, ain't it ?"

"No need to rub it in, Tan !"

"Well, s'alright. You'll always be m'boy." He pauses to look at them both more closely. "Say, you been makin' Mr. Monte D'Or here cry ? That's not how we show hospitality in Craggy Dale !"

Henry, suddenly quite self-conscious, rubs at his eyes with his sleeve. He thinks the man named Tan smiles at him, but he can't be completely sure.

"Sorry to come into your home uninvited -" he starts, but Randall grabs his arm and tugs him close to his side.

Tan looks at them both in turn, and at their linked arms, and at Randall's sunny face where tears have almost dried. And Randall looks at Henry, and he looks back at Tan, and tells him :

"Tan, there's someone I'd like you to me-"

"I know you," Tannenbaum interrupts, wiggling a finger in Henry's direction.

Randall's mouth snaps shut.

"What ?" Henry says.

Tan's eyebrows furrow - or so it appears. "I know you ! You were in the news, weren't you ? Ledore ! You the young lad who founded Monte D'Or ?"

Randall turns to Henry, and Henry looks back at him in turn, offering a sort of apologetic smile. It occurs to him this might have been worth mentioning earlier.

"You wouldn't know, m'boy," Tan nods at Randall, "You only read the papers for the puzzles, see, but I swear I've seen your face in a picture, mister. Am I wrong ?"

Slowly, Henry shakes his head.

Randall's hands go straight to his shoulders and settle there. "Monte D'Or, the city of miracles - that's you?"

"It's a long story, you see," Henry says, "But, um - yes. It's my work."

“So that man you came here with –“

“My aide.”

“You have an aide ?” Randall repeats, awed. “Henry, while I was picking fruit and growing corn, what have you been up to these past five years ?”

Henry feels his face warm. “I’ve been searching for you,” he says, “That's all. Monte D’Or was just the headquarters of that search. But after a while, it began to attract more tourists and investors, and I was hoping the publicity might bring you home. But,” he pauses to smile, a little teasingly, “I failed to take into account the fact you only read the newspapers for the puzzles.”

It's Randall's turn to flush and turn his nose up, but he's smiling as well. "It's usually the only section worth reading."

"Usually's the keyword, ain't it ?" Tan puts in wisely, and hobbles across the room to the little brick arch that leads to the kitchen. "You had breakfast, blondie ?"

It takes Henry a moment to understand he's being referred to. "I - I can't say I have."

"Well then, better fry some eggs. We gotta hear that long story of yours, don't we, m'boy ?"

Randall goes over to the cramped table and pulls up a chair, waving for Henry to take it. "We most certainly do !"

"It truly is quite long," Henry warns them, accepting the seat. In fact, he doesn't even know where to start.

"Thankfully, the days are long out here in the sand," he says, "And we have all the time in the world !"

That's true. There's no more rush, no more fear of the daylight dwindling upon another day of failure. In Tannenbaum's little house, the air is cool and the shade plentiful, and at the table with him sits Randall, red hair shining a gentle ginger in the sunlight. He crosses his arms over the wooden surface and thinks there's no better place to be. He takes a moment to gather his thoughts, to align everything right, and when he's ready, begins the tale that has brought him all the way out here, into the blaze and the sand and the home of his dearest.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Found & Returned](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27251614) by [leo_minor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leo_minor/pseuds/leo_minor)




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